


A Subtle Change

by ashthimble



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dream MCD, M/M, Mark of Cain, Minor Dean/Alistair, Non-Consensual Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashthimble/pseuds/ashthimble
Summary: The question isn't a matter of finding small comforts in everyday life. It's a matter of whether those comforts exist in the first place. Dean's tired of living like this, but there isn't much he can do to change it. The mark keeps tearing at him, and at this point, he knows his snapping isn't a matter of "if" but "when..."





	A Subtle Change

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Rare Ship Creation Challenge's round ten, with the prompt being "sandstorm."

The mark burns like a miniature sun beneath his skin. It beams down on him relentlessly, day and night, and as time goes on, Dean can feel himself breaking down. He’s not stupid. Forty years in hell did nothing if not teach him what his limits are, and in the end, no matter how much digging you do, sometimes a well is just out of water. Sam can give all the motivating speeches he wants, and Cas can declare his faith in Dean until he goes blue in the face. The fact remains. He’s just not as good a man as they he think he is, and for once, he wishes they’d stop looking through their rose-tinted glasses and see that. Is it too much to ask to be seen for what he is?

Crowley presses a soft kiss to his lips before slinging an arm around his ribs and snuggling in.

“Don’t.” Dean whispers.

“Already ready to go another round?” Crowley asks, leaning his head back and quirking an eyebrow. “Or is this an attempt to derive me of my beauty sleep?”

“Demons don’t need sleep.” The mark on his arm throbs and Dean grimaces. “And I want you to leave.”

At this, Crowley pulls away completely, pushing himself upright. “You weren’t so eager for me to leave when you were fucking me— but whatever you say, love.”

“Fuck off, Crowley.” He turns over to face the wall.

“Is it the mark?” If he didn’t know better, he’d have said there was a concerned edge to Crowley’s voice. “I’m not complaining, but it did seem a bit out of character for you to take me up on my seductions.”

Dean stifles the urge to cover his head with a pillow. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome.”

“Dean.” There’s no mistaking the soft tone of his voice this time. Dean clenches his eyes shut. Why won’t he just _leave_. “I don’t particularly care whether you’re a good man or not.”

“Thanks.”

“Good is overrated, anyway.” Crowley continues, trailing his hand down Dean’s arm. “It never tends to be very fun in bed, at any rate.”

Dean jerks his shoulder back, and rolls over in bed to glare at him. “I’m only going to say this one more time. Fuck. Off.”

“As you wish, Squirrel,” Dean watches Crowley as he pulls on his clothes, leaving the tie to dangle around his neck. “You’ve got my number if you ever get bored,” he tilts his head, considering, “or overly excited— I hear that’s a side effect of mind-altering eldritch curses.”

“This isn’t going to happen again.” Dean says, sitting up, mark burning.  
Crowley smirks. “Call me.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Dean behind to seethe and the faint smell of sulfur to settle in the air of the motel room. With nothing left to do but sleep, Dean lays back down. He doesn’t have it in him to close his eyes. There’s no feeling of relief in being human enough to dream these days.  
He drifts off anyway, and the nightmares come like they always do. He dreams about killing Sam in the desert, jabbing the blade into him again and again with only the sky to bear witness. Sam’s fingers grasp weakly at the blade as he whimpers, and it’s only when the life fades from his eyes that Dean pulls the blade out and allows it to fall to the ground. Blood leaks from his wounds onto the sand below, and Sam collapses with a loud thud. Dean watches in fascination as Sam’s blood pools around him, and a figure rises from the red, completely dry.

Alistair glances at Sam’s body and tsks. “I know I taught you better than this.” He steps closer, gripping Dean’s jaw tightly between his hands. “If you’re going to drain a body like that, you better make damn well sure you fill it up with something else.” And with that, he’s kissing Dean, and Dean tries to push him away, but it’s too late, sand is already filling up his throat and burrowing into his lungs.He coughs frantically, hands on his throat as he falls to the ground, writhing. It feels like the sand is scrubbing him to bone from the inside out, stripping away layers of muscle and tissue piece by piece. Dean opens his mouth to scream, eyes flickering shut as visions of heat and dust and loss overwhelm him. His hand reaches for a blade that was never there.

He wakes up long before the sun’s risen, a sweaty mess, the mark practically screaming on his arm. Dean takes a deep breath, reassuring himself. There is no sand. Sam is alive.

His eyes fall to his arm, the mark bright and angry.

Dean swallows roughly and reaches for his phone. He could go for a distraction.


End file.
